The Piano 

 

Disclaimer: All thoughts / ideas / words that appear below are the sole thoughts / writings of the author and were in no way AI generated. Images appearing in this post were created by the author using an AI image generator for the sole purpose of providing illustrations.

Fermata, Legato, Staccato, Slur, Forte, Fortissimo, Pianissimo, Diminished, Whole Note, Quarter Note, ¾ Time…

These were terms I had not heard in over thirty years; in fact, some of them were terms that I had never encountered before. They were all new, yet so familiar. It was a part of me I had never known existed, yet had been there all along. It was a friend waiting in the shadows; it was a connection waiting to be restored. It was a missing puzzle piece; it was a lost part of me. It was like a prodigal returning home. It was my piano.  

I have always thought that my childhood could basically be defined in three stages. Beginning, middle, and end. Because of the nature of my dad’s career(s) while growing up, there was not a lot of continuity or consistency in my childhood at all. 

In some ways, there was consistency, as I had both of my parents as stable figures in my life while growing up. In other ways, the constant moves, changing of schools, leaving friends behind, and learning not to ever get close to people created a huge disconnect in my life. It might not sound like a huge deal to some people, but one of the accomplishments in my adult life that I am the most proud of is that I have been able to obtain stability, to live in one town (nearly 18 years now) for my entire married life. My son has been able to grow up in this town, go to the same church in the same school that he has been in since he was little, and have the same friends all his life.

When I was about seven or eight, my parents wanted me to start playing the piano, so I had a really sweet older lady named Mrs. Barbara who began to teach me piano. I can still faintly remember going out to Mrs. Barbara's house in the country and enduring those weekly lessons. I don't remember much about my practice in those early years, but I do remember that I did not practice that much because my parents were very lackadaisical in making sure that I was consistent in my practice. Those lessons lasted for about a year and a half until we had to move again and I had to leave Mrs. Barbara and my piano behind.

As some of you know, I was diagnosed with a rather severe hearing loss early in my childhood. It stabilized, and the doctors thought that it would remain consistent with the rest of my life. They thought that what I had at that point would be what I continued to have into my adult years. Undetected by my parents, it slowly started to diminish even more after I turned 10 years of age.

When I was nine years old, we moved, and for the next four or five years, life was filled with moves, job inconsistencies on my dad's part, and uncertainty about where we would even live. I always missed the piano, and secretly longed to play it but felt really discouraged and so I never picked it up after leaving Mrs. Barbara behind.

When I was 13, in the summer of 1994, we moved for what would be the last time during my grade and secondary school years. This was a time filled with much angst; in addition to the normal teenage angst, there was the added factor of moving to an entirely new city, nearly 1 ½ hours from where I’d lived for the past 5 years. It was a place where I knew no one, and had no desire to be. I won’t go into much detail about those years in this blog, because that’s not really the point of this post, and it’s still really difficult for me to think about and talk about even 30 years after the fact.

The pianist at our church was an incredibly talented lady named Mrs. Jackie. To this day, I still have not heard anyone that could play with the distinct style and talent that she processed. Sure, I have heard a number of incredibly talented pianists through the years, but Mrs. Jackie’s sound was unique. Just like I can close my eyes and tell you exactly when Floyd Cramer starts playing, I could tell you exactly when “Mama Jackie” (as we called her) would start playing. Her sound was that unique and beautiful. She was incredibly gifted in that she played by ear, but also knew how to sight read music very proficiently. In addition to being a church pianist, she was a banker by day, and a piano teacher by night. When  I was 15, my parents got Mama Jackie to start teaching me on the piano once more. I picked it up very quickly again even though I hadn’t touched the piano in more than 6 years. 

Because I was battling so much inner turmoil as a teenager that I kept hidden until my thirties, I never really took my piano playing seriously (which unfortunately, carried over into lack of desire to practice). When I turned 15, my hearing started rapidly diminishing even though the doctors had, years before, told my parents that it would remain stable. When I was 17, I was facing the inability to hear the notes clearly, so much repressed anger (which led to untreated depression), and yet even more instability in my family. In addition, Mama Jackie was facing some personal challenges in her own family which meant that she had to give up teaching for a spell. All of these things created a perfect storm which meant that I had to give up piano once more. For years after that, every time I saw a piano, I was filled with equal parts remorse, anger, longing, regret, and hopelessness. For me, it wasn’t just a piano. It was a symbol of what I’d lost as a teenager, a symbol of the lost, lonely young man that I felt no one saw or understood. It was a symbol of something I felt I could never achieve. 

During my freshman year of college, my parents moved yet again. This time their move led them out of state. It’s laughably funny, but when you think of kids going off to college, you think of the kids flying the nest and branching out on their own. In my situation, it was quite the opposite. I was already in school and didn’t have it in me to move yet again. I certainly did not want to go to college in Louisiana closer to my folks. So I stayed behind and my family left me. I actually lived with Mama Jackie and her husband for about 6 months until I got my own place and caught my stride. I will forever be grateful to them for that blessing. 

During my senior year of high school, my hearing had nearly completely vanished. That was a scary and frustrating time that I’d rather not remember. When I was a sophomore in college, I had surgery to bring back some of my hearing and the next few years were filled with the challenges of not only completing college, but also simultaneously learning to hear and speak correctly again. During this time, I met my lovely wife, who has been with me ever since (22 years now). In between starting my career after college, moving to Arizona for a stint, then back to Mississippi, getting married, and settling down to raise my son, and going through graduate school not once, but two times, playing the piano was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, subconsciously, it was the closest thing to my mind the the nearest thing to my heart. Deep down, I always had a longing to play again, but the constant fear of failure kept that from ever becoming a reality. 

A few years ago, I found an older 61 key Yamaha synthesizer from the late 1990’s, and purchased it from an older gentleman simply because it reminded me of the one I played on in my youth. Last year, the music department at the college where I work was liquidating two of their older Roland digital pianos, to replace them with newer models. I bought one for pennies on the dollar and dragged it home in the back of my buddy’s truck, much to the dismay of my wife. I bought it simply because it reminded me of the one Mama Jackie had in her piano studio.

 

I saw Mama Jackie a few times after moving away from Petal and graduating college. I kept up with her regularly on social media and via text. She was an incredible lady that touched so many lives including mine. Sadly, she experienced a good number of health issues over the last few years, even though she was my dad’s age, 71. This past February, she took a turn for the worse and unexpectedly passed away. I went to her memorial service, which required me to return to a place I said I would never go back to for the rest of my life. Hearing story after story of how Mama Jackie had touched so many lives, and hearing so much piano playing (and singing) in her honor touched something and sparked something inside of me; something that had been long dormant. 

For several years now, I have said I was going to pick up where I left off with piano all those years ago. Every year, I’ve made excuses for why I couldn’t. I’m too old. I’m too busy. I will never be good. I don’t have the time. It’s pointless…and so forth. After bringing the Roland home, I sat down and dabbled a little while playing it. The video I included at the top of this post is just an improvisation piece I recorded one Sunday morning this past February, while thinking about Mama Jackie and what she had meant to me in my life. 

Our church pianist is a retired music professor who is very proficient on the piano and the organ. She is a sweet lady who is very kind and she teaches piano in her studio, the Clinton Music Conservatory. A while back, she added me as a friend on social media, and earlier this summer, she announced that she would be starting summer lessons at her home beginning in June. On a whim, I approached her one Sunday in church and expressed my desire to resume my studies, despite the fact that I had not played the piano or opened up a piano book since Bill Clinton was in office! She agreed to teach me, and thus began the continuation of my journey in June of this year.

Today, I’m nearly 45 years old. I’m not a young man any more, and my memory is not as sharp as it used to be. I don’t have any desire to be a concert pianist, a church pianist, or the next Beethoven. In fact, I know I will never be any of those things. But I am playing again. Not for anyone, but myself. And it makes me happy. It’s my therapy. It’s like coming home. Committing 45 minutes to an hour each day of practice is a daunting task, but this time it’s different…I can’t get enough of it.  Learning piano again is like drinking water from a literal fire hydrant. It’s overwhelming. It’s like continuing to learn a foreign language you gave up speaking when you were still in high school. But it’s exhilarating, it’s invigorating, and it’s challenging me to no end. And this time it’s different. I’m an adult, and I want this like I've wanted few other things in life. I'm doing this for no one but myself. The fire hydrant continues to gush, but I’m thirsty and I’m soaking in as much as I can as fast as I can. Dr. Wilder is a good teacher, and very patient. 

For me, it’s not just a piano, and nor are these just musical notes that I'm playing. It’s the 45 year old me traveling back in time, to a place in life where I can reconnect with the teenage version of me; I needed to find him and tell him it will be OK. It’s not just a piano, it’s re-discovering what was lost. With each chord I learn and play, I'm one step closer to him. It’s reconnecting with a part of me that I have been unable to reach for so long. You’re never too old to learn or to travel back and find the younger version of yourself and learn to love him. As long as you have breath, you’re never too old. 

Today, I challenge you, much as I have challenged myself, to go back and find whatever it is that you lost in your life. To reconnect and rediscover the younger you that was lost, and for the older you to be able to tell him “It’s OK, we will continue this journey together.” I know Mama Jackie is smiling at me. Even if I never play for anyone else, that’s OK. I have all I need right in front me; just me and my piano. 

Just remember that I, oh I am always near,
You just have to reach deep into your heart
But for now, you just dry your tears, don't you ever fear
Just sit awhile and play your song in the night

Come, just sit with me awhile, for I will make you smile
As we play our songs together in the night
You just call out to me and there will be no more tears
We'll just sit here together awhile
Come, let's just sit together awhile…

(excerpt from “Songs in the Night” © Stephen Coleman)

Scars

 

Scars

(Note: all photographs taken by me, many years ago, in my hometown.)

From a young age, I was told that I possessed a knack for penning words onto paper. I must admit that I have always enjoyed writing and expressing my emotions through the written word. Perhaps that is why I went on to obtain both B.A. and M.A. degrees in English Literature and did a stint of teaching on the collegiate level. But like anything else in life, our gifts and skills will quickly become rusty with lack of use. Over the past two years, I have had so many thoughts; thoughts that I both wanted and needed to share, and I have had so many opportunities to pen those thoughts down on paper. Sometimes I did, but most of the time I didn’t. For reasons that I can’t explain, I have failed to write on a regular basis. As a result of this, both my personal blog and my contributions to the Samson blog have been gravely neglected.

Last year, during the height of Covid, I decided that I wanted to start riding a bicycle again so that I could join my young son in riding around our neighborhood. Of course, as was the case with so many other things, there was a nationwide bicycle shortage during the middle of the pandemic in 2020. Although we did eventually find a bicycle for my wife to ride, I could not locate a single men’s bicycle in the style or the size that I wanted. There were simply no bicycles to be found anywhere. About that time, I recalled that I had a derelict old Huffy hybrid bicycle left over from my college days; it had been resting dormant in the corner of my shop for many years. Through the years, my wife had often suggested that I should just get rid of the bike; indeed, she could not understand why I was holding on to a dusty vestige from my college days. But you know, the bike had (and still has) great sentimental value to me as I had taken it with me during my two years in Arizona and had ridden it all through the Grand Canyon National Park. So, I hauled the bike out of the shop and took it to Bicycle Revolution in Gluckstadt where I promptly proceeded to fork over nearly as much to overhaul the old wreck as I would have paid for a brand-new low-end bicycle. Getting back on that bike was like reuniting with a familiar friend; our reunion was a little rusty at first, a little wobbly, and we were both a little uncertain of what to do with each other for the first few moments. However, I quickly got up to speed and soon it was like we had never been apart.

Or perhaps, rediscovering my love for writing will be more along the lines of opening a door or a window that has not been opened for many years. You know, when you first open that door or maybe the window, it will most likely refuse to open all the way might even make a terrible racket while trying to be persuaded. But the more you open it and close it (and maybe apply a little oil to it), it becomes smoother and easier to operate. This blog post is a “quasi-attempt” of sorts to re-launch my writing. A re-oiling of a squeaky and rusty mind if you will.

Fall has always been my most favorite time of the year. I can most likely attribute this love of autumn to the fact that I started my very first revolution around the sun on September 1, (I was born a Labor Day baby many moons ago) and I was destined to be welcomed into the open arms of fall. In any case, the arrival of my birth month always fills me with eager longing for what I consider to be the most magical time of the year. As the blazing summer sun slowly loses its brutal radiance and begins to give way to the cooler autumnal wind, my soul instinctively begins to enter into a more reflective season of life.

I have had, for many years now, the great privilege of working for a small, private university. From an aesthetical standpoint, I would argue that the campus possesses a timeless beauty carefully honed by the generations of people who have lovingly cared for it; in any case, it just feels like home after being here for so many years. I often enjoy slipping away on my afternoon break or during the latter part of my lunchtime, and simply taking a leisurely stroll around the campus. I am a natural-born people watcher, and I love to observe people. Although I am not a shopper and I have not been to an indoor mall in ages, I used to love to go with my family and just sit on the bench in the middle of the mall and watch people pass by while my family shopped. I love to watch the interactions between people and imagine who they are and what they are in life. Similarly, I will sometimes simply sit down on the bench in the middle of campus and observe the students rushing to class, oblivious to anything or anyone around them.  Sometimes when the students aren’t so rushed, I enjoy watching their interactions with one another as they pass by. Occasionally, I will take note of the lone individual lost in their own ruminations while taking a lonely, singular stroll.

As the air begins to get crisper and the trees begin to shed their leaves, I observe the piles of red and gold leaves that scatter the landscape. In my head, the late, great Eva Cassidy’s voice begins to sing as I think of my favorite song sung by her – Autumn Leaves. “The autumn leaves drift by my window, the falling leaves of red and gold...”

Absentmindedly, I stop to pick up one of the leaves and I slowly rub it between my fingers, noting the beautiful texture somewhat mottled by spots of brown. I stop to pick up another one. Curiously, I hold them side-by-side and observe that they are both unique and quite different from each other. No two leaves are ever alike. Just like humans, the leaves have tiny veins that give them life, and these veins create a web pattern that is intricately designed and belongs only to that leaf.

As I hold the leaves in the palm of my hand, my attention turns to my skin, which having completed its 40^th orbit around the sun some time ago, is starting to look less youthful than it once did. Subconsciously, I stroke the scar on the palm of my left hand. It is a tiny and nearly invisible mark born of a brief run-in with a box blade knife while on the job during my years in Arizona. I remember that day, having to get stitches in that hand because the gash was quite deep and painful. I remember that even worse than having to get stitches was the humiliation of being required to take a drug test because the accident happened while at work. Of course, it goes without saying, that I was able to pass the drug test (as I always have) with flying colors. No, the scar was a result of my own stupidity and carelessness and not the result of some drug-induced stupor.

As my gaze moves up from my palm to my left forearm, I note the faint, yet still, visible scar marring my skin. Fondly, I think back to a childhood puppy, who in a moment of overexuberant puppy playfulness, got a tad bit rough with the nips from her sharp puppy teeth and broke the young, tender skin on my seven or eight-year-old body. As I look around on my arms and my hands, I realized that there are other, smallish scars that are barely visible, but nonetheless still there. I can’t even recall how I got most of them. Some of them, like that scar on the palm of my hand, bear testimony to more significant events in my life. Other smaller scars, however, don’t have any significant event associated with them. Yet they still tell the story of a well-lived life.

As I continue my walk, I think about other scars on my body. These scars are hidden for the most part and are less outwardly prominent. They are hidden. That doesn’t mean the events associated with them were any less painful. Hidden or not, they still tell a part of my story. Reflexively, my hand begins to gently stroke my abdomen as I think about the 7-inch scar that runs from the lower part of my chest to below my navel. I recall the day that it happened. I think about how even though God saved my life at that point, the extremely painful months that followed made me wish he hadn’t. In fact, I still suffer from issues to this day related to the emergency surgery that caused that scar. I am not ashamed of that scar; I will unabashedly take my shirt off when I go swimming with my son in the summertime. If anyone ever notices, they certainly don’t ask me about it, but I would never hesitate to talk about it if they were to ask.

For some reason, a certain percentage of the male population seems to think that scars are really cool. I am not included in that percentage. I remember that upon my arrival back at work two weeks after my emergency surgery, one particularly outspoken and bold male student worker (who was a good guy nonetheless) asked me “so, Mr. Coleman, do you have a scar?” I responded with “Yes, Tyler, I have a very large scar.” Tyler then proceeded to let me know that my having a scar was “so cool” and that “chicks [apparently] really dig scars!” Even though Mr. Coleman did not think it was “cool” at the time, I politely smiled and told him “I’m glad you think so, Tyler! For the record, I am married, and my wife doesn’t really dig it!” Fortunately, Tyler did not ask me to show him the scar in question, as that would not have been appropriate in a professional work environment!

Other scars are metaphorical in nature; these are scars that live deep within our psyche or deep within the confines of our hearts. I never really stopped to think about how each of us has emotional scars, but it’s so true. Even if one has lived the most incredibly perfect life, I would daresay that each person has at least one thing that is scaring them below the surface. I never really gave much thought about that in my own life, but those scars are there, nonetheless. They were just so glossed over that I had almost forgotten that they existed. The last six or seven years in Samson have taught me to be more introspective and to carefully examine myself deep down into corners that I would much rather forget about. All this introspection has re-exposed wounds that the scars had covered up for so many years. And that is not cool at all. Or so I thought. And unlike my abdominal scar that I have no problem displaying during the summer months, no one is ever allowed to see those hidden scars.

Sometimes, I feel that it would have been much easier to have gone through life making myself believe that everything was okay; in fact, I know that it would have been easier. But then I wonder: where would I be today? Would God be able to use me in the same way that he has in the past few years? Only a couple of people, maybe a handful, within Samson know me and know the scars that I bear. Of that handful, maybe one or maybe two know the extent of and the depth of pain that still haunts me to this day. No one at my church does. And that is a painful cross that I bear each week. It is a sore subject and just might be the topic of a future Samson blog.

Scars cover wounds. They block pain. Within the first few weeks after my surgery in 2015, I got a terrible wound infection. My body could not begin the healing process until that wound was addressed and treated. The scar couldn’t form. The staples couldn’t be pulled. How many people have wounds inside that have never been addressed and treated? My scars inside are new, born of very old wounds that have finally started to heal over the last decade.

I don’t think scars ever go away. In fact, I know that most of them don’t. My 33-year-old scar still exists to remind me of a long-gone but playful puppy. It is a memory. A moment in time. A month and a half after my surgery in 2015, I visited with the surgeon’s nurse where she proceeded to pull the 48 Staples out of my incision with a pair of surgical pliers. Surprisingly, it didn’t even hurt all that much. Perhaps it was because the scar tissue blocked the nerves from sending the pain signal to my body.

I remember meeting with my surgeon a few months after my surgery for a follow-up, postop visit. As I met with the surgeon that day, I thanked him for saving my life and told him what a blessing he had been. I then asked him if my scar would ever go away. He said no, son, I don’t think so. With you being such a fair-skinned white boy, I think that your scar will always be quite visible. And it is. Even though that happened back in 2015, I see it every day when I wake up and get dressed. I see it when I take a shower. I see it when I go swimming in the lake with my son in the summertime. Even though I sometimes want to be resentful of that ugly mark, God tells me that I am to be thankful. Thankful for my scars. And so, I am. For me, that scar is a beautiful sign of God’s grace and mercy in my life. It is a sign that he was not finished with me at that time. It is a mark on the roadmap of my life. I am sometimes tempted to be resentful of my eternal scars as well. But I am learning to instead be grateful.

I will have to admit, that I have not always looked at my inward scars as something beautiful. Most days I still struggle to accept them. As Natalie Grant sings:

“I see shattered

You see whole

I see broken

But You see beautiful

And You're helping me to believe

You're restoring me piece by piece”

 

Even if I still find those internal scars painful, God still honors them and uses them, and he is helping me to believe that he is restoring me piece by piece. One day, the scars will be gone. Both the outwardly visible, and the internally invisible scars will be gone. I will sit down, wrapped in the arms of my savior, on a bench bathed in golden sunlight somewhere in a new creation. I will look at my hands and look at my arms and they will be completely unblemished. The scars will be no more.

I still have pain every day. These days, the physical pain is not as bad as it used to be, but the emotional pain will never go away. I have learned to accept that I just have to keep on pressing forward and rising to face each new day. The scars will always be there. But they don’t define me as much as they used to.

I slowly rise from the cool metal bench where I have been sitting alone, having taken a brief pause from my walk. I daresay I can detect a hint of the winter wind somewhere far off in the air. As I continue with my walk and begin to make my way back towards my office, I drop the two leaves that I have been holding in my hands. As I watch them drift slowly to the ground; they flutter about in a fantastical dance orchestrated by mother nature. They fall, destined to join the hundreds of other leaves littering the landscape. Suddenly, a wind blows, a breath blowing life into the leaves, and they begin to rise from the ground and swirl all around me. Oranges, reds, and golds all mix brilliantly into a fall kaleidoscope. As the wind begins to pick up steam, the leaves swirl faster and faster all around me. Big leaves and little leaves are all inter-mixed, yet each is unique and different in its own way. Little veins, little marks, little scars of sorts; each leaf is unique and created individually by the creator’s hand. The older I get, the faster life seems to move, much like the leaves swirling around me. Big people, little people, old people, young people all quickly moving around me and all carrying their own scars. Each has a story; perhaps, it is a story that we can learn from if we only take the time. 

“What was dead now lives again

My heart's beating, beating inside my chest

Oh I'm coming alive with joy and destiny

'Cause You're restoring me piece by piece”

The Degree By Which Demographics Impact Relationships (Within Samson Society Or Otherwise)

Just how differently (if at all) do you think about / view the world / people around you if you have / do not have (either/or) a college degree?  What if your Silas has zero higher education / a college degree but you do have a college degree (or multiple college degrees) / don't have any higher education?  How might those opposing demographic descriptors impact your friendship?  Knowing what we do of Christian men who find themselves in crisis, Samson Society may very well fit the bill, yet every man is unique.  As such, there is no categorical recipe for men to both find themselves within crisis and in turn, step into our community.  It is welcome to all.  But over time, their demographic will no doubt become a part of their Samson Society narrative.  And this is a good thing because that's in line with the spirit of transparency that our community is built upon, but over time, that (specifically demographic) narrative will predictably pigeonhole this man into his specific group.

On a related note, the differentiator between an in-person and virtual Samson Society meeting experience is how much more efficiently those present will find their specific narratives being fleshed out within the in-person format.  And this is simply a result of the au natural human-to-human connection, and how prone men are to effectively relate when they're physically present with each other.

My experience with the questions I've posed above harken all the way back to 2014.  This is when I first stepped foot into a Jackson, Mississippi Samson Society meeting as a college educated, professionally licensed freak (my story attests to this).  At that time, I was more defeated and ashamed than I'd ever been.  And just as isolated as I'd found myself one year prior when everything around me began falling apart (job loss due to breaking IT policy at Delta State University).

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Relational tribalism, amongst men of the same demographic / educational background, can (I'm using the word "can" in lieu of "will" because I'm only privy to my own experience) sometimes develop and thrive within the Samson Society.  Especially, I would argue, within the Samson Society.  And I believe this is due to how prone Samson guys are to being loners.  Hence, as such, individual men who gravitate towards isolation may not garner nor divvy out a trustworthy approach - no questions asked.  Instead, there tends to be much less of an agnostic relational outlook in spite of the free enterprise verbiage spelled out within the Samson Society charter.  Now, relational tribalism, in my opinion, is an extreme form of simply relegating oneself to a specific clique.  Considering that truth, be forewarned of how quickly it can set in, efficiently working in favor of a distinctly inbred approach to community.

So we have two factors that I find tend to consistently subdivide the Samson Society community.

1.  demographics

2.  Samson guy's comfortableness with a specific outlook / state of being (individual isolation) which is prone to subjugate him into cliques (sub-grouped isolation).

I'm going to focus going forward on item number 1 because I'm fascinated by it.

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Five or six years ago, our now present-day church, Lakeside Presbyterian Church, formally voted out (removed) their then Senior Pastor.  At the time, we were not members of the church.  Instead, we were back at First Baptist Church Jackson (which is where Angie and I grew up and were married).  I'd sensed this Presbyterian ouster would eventually come to pass, therefore instead of riding out the emotional / relational rapids at our local community church (Lakeside Pres), we made a discreet exit (back to FBCJ with the hope of an eventual return).

Immediately prior to Lakeside Pres' then pastor's formal ouster, a group of twenty or so families began discreetly rallying around this man, for they saw the writing on the wall.  They did so to the point of working with him to seed an entirely new church for their collective.  And that did occur, thereby that new church(split) was eventually dubbed "Reigning Grace Church".  

Within a few years though, "Reigning Grace Church" imploded.  Then the disgraced pastor (& his wife) returned to his roots on the east coast (which is where they came to Mississippi from).  

I remember writing this man a short "thinking of you" note (upon his termination from Lakeside Pres), acknowledging the tremendous humiliation involved in a forced termination.  Though he and I weren't at all close, I couldn't help but sympathize.  For as I referenced earlier, just a few years prior to this schism, I'd been terminated from Delta State University in the most heartless, unprofessional manner conceivable (to me).  

I would have never taken the time to write this note though, had I known what was about to transpire in the form of "Reigning Grace Church".

The "church split" that occurred came very close to shuttering Lakeside Presbyterian Church completely.  For the church body was already tremendously sad over the procedural hurdles they'd had to go through to decouple their stubbornly complacent pastor.  This combined with the recent loss (by suicide) of one of their most accomplished / beloved elders earlier that same year made Lakeside especially vulnerable for such a time as that.

But God sustained this small Reservoir community church through this supernaturally, and today, it is better for it relative to its steadfastness in furthering its local church mission - only.

What's of interest though regarding this "Reigning Grace Church" startup's unforeseen demise has to do with the mundaneness of the item number one listed above - demographics, and the critical role it played therein.

The subset of Lakeside Presbyterian Church families that "rebelled" by decoupling themselves from Lakeside Pres - in protest to the Senior Pastor's termination - were no different demographically than those they left behind.  As such, I would argue, their new church faced a great deal of difficulty developing it's own identity / purpose apart from the mothership.  Too, the "Reigning Grace Church" chose to locate within an adjacent county / city (Madison) which was demographically decidedly different than Rankin / Reservoir area (where Lakeside Pres resides).  

The tale of "Reigning Grace Church" isn't unique.  Most (small scale) church splits don't thrive.  Instead, they peter out fairly quickly just as this one did.  And this is due to the churchsplit's inability to successfully separate itself from its historical identity anchored in demographics.  Demographics that are comfortably the same to where they split away from.  Petty theological differences usually aren't nearly enough to anesthetize the massive emotional scars left to be healed by a church split.  As such, their identity as the "rebels" alone often falls way short of what's needed to kickstart the process of penning their own narrative.

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Now, let's look at another example.  One that's just as personally poignant but whose ultimate outcome (well beyond the snippet I'm disclosing here) is the reverse of what I've described above.

Two younger men were invited to the Lakeside Presbyterian Church Samson Society (which I used to facilitate) many years ago by a younger, close friend (who was a regular attendee), and it's important to note that this younger friend just happened / happens to not be within my demographic (which was / is really cool).  I'd enjoyed (& still enjoy) his friendship for many years, even serving as his Silas for much of that early-on time period.    

The two younger men he invited just happened to be within my demographic, at least relative to higher education.  I took note of this immediately, and frankly was pleased to have them there - that much more - due to our demographic similarities.  

Now let me stop here and interject something of note.

Part of my modus operandi as a Samson Society group facilitator was to offer to dine / have coffee with newbies immediately following their attendance to their first meeting(s).  This was one of the primary reasons I instituted a "Sign-In" page for each meeting, requiring attendees to provide their contact info.  Therefore, I did just that with these young men.  And both eventually agreed to join me.  As such, I vividly recall both meals being well worth the time (& monies) spent.  The conversation flowed easily between us as I executed my dental work.

Three to five days after I'd had the opportunity to "roll out the red carpet" via my hospitableness towards these young college-educated Samson Society newbies, something very weird happened.  In fact, it was about the most unexpected thing I've had happen to me whilst being part of this community.

My old friend (who'd invited these men to the Lakeside Pres group) and a similarly demographic to him friend of both of ours, approached me in order to question my motives relative to lunching with these newbies.  This too occurred over a lunch, and I distinctly recall - after this juncture - beginning to question myself.   For the frictional situation I now found myself in was both off putting and extremely confusing. 

Ultimately, and I just did not want to formally recognize this all those years ago, what I had found myself caught in the middle of was a territorial, disguised as solely platonic, pissing match.  A pissing match that I'd ignorantly provoked simply by following a protocol that I'd established as a Samson Society group facilitator.

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The neighborhood that we call home is somewhat demographically diverse (though getting less & less so with each passing year).  I believe I've written about that prior.  The homes are small (by 2021 standards) and packed in like sardines within a tightly compacted, nondescript setting.  Therefore, it's next to impossible to not know - to some degree - who lives where and what they're up to most of the time.

The youngest single family homeowners on our 11-home cul-de-sac have a daughter about the age of our youngest.  As they eventually settled into our enclave over the past three to four years (they very much kept to themselves), I began neighborly engaging with the hopes that they'd eventually dine with us.  I like to meet people in an effort to extract their narratives (dental work!), but especially from the standpoint of hopefully furthering the gospel via hospitality.  Plus, I just felt so moved to minister to this young family.  

Unfortunately, this juncture did not occur.  And yet again, it was due to my stupidity relative to naively provoking a pissing match over demographics.  

In the end, what I reflexively relayed in jest - to our new neighbors (via text message) - was in no way perceived as such (& I cannot emphasize that enough).  And from there, it was all downhill (Black diamond).  To the point that soon thereafter, I had to call a family meeting in an effort to warn the girls to steer clear of our neighbors in order to avoid any collateral damage.

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I want all three of my daughters to attend college.  Even if they don't necessarily pursue a life that's career-centric.  Higher education matures individuals.  Particularly if you can endure the pain required to complete it.  

But, I'm biased.  And so is Angie.  In the end, there are plenty of folks out there who have a completely different point of view than we do about higher education.  And most of those have zero higher education experience.  And that's perfectly okay.

The point of this post isn't to argue for or against higher education.  The point here is to attempt to begin to unpack the long-term relational complexities involved in bringing all manner of men-in-crisis together within the Samson Society.  Men from various demographic backgrounds who are committed to this very special ministry.

It's so interesting to me how despite Samson guys' various religious backgrounds / beliefs, those never seem to subtly complicate things as much as demographics have the potential to.  I have to wonder if this is the case in other parts of world where various meetings are hosted.

In the end, I find that it's really, really difficult to maintain one foot equally on each side of the railroad tracks without running the risk of getting run down by the train.  And this makes my heart sad.  Demographics do play a significant role in synchronizing narratives (bringing likeminded men together) which is the ultimate goal of relational accountability, and it sucks to have to admit to this.  

Relational accountability though is the heart of Samson Society NOT the synchronization of every man's narrative.

I would argue that finding relational accountability within a diverse friendship is / will be a far more precious experience, and as such, should be revered / cherished / protected to the nth degree.

"To Bloom Where You Are Planted" - Finding Peace In The Places Where Life Takes You

 

We Should Bloom Where We Are Planted...

In the video clip above, two friends are standing on a bridge. The character of Lee has been trying to encourage his friend, Griffith, to abandon his family and to leave the state of Mississippi in order to pursue better opportunities. Griffith, rooted firmly into the soil of Mississippi, is very reluctant to leave, and ultimately ends up staying in his beloved Mississippi. This clip is one that has always resonated with me.

When I turned 40 years old last September, it didn't really hit me all that hard. Really, my 40th birthday came and went just another day in my life. It was nothing special, and I had previously requested no parties, accolades, or surprises from my family. Of course, being in the middle of the Covid 19 pandemic help to ensure that any birthday celebrations would be at a minimum. For months prior to my birthday arriving, the thought had been lingering at the back of my mind that I would soon approach 40 years of age, and would soon embark on my 40th journey around the sun. Longevity does not seem to be in my favor, as all four of my grandparents passed away before ever reaching their 90s. My longest living grandfather was 87 when he passed away four years ago, while both of my grandmothers passed away in their 70s. Arriving at my 40th birthday served as a sobering reminder to myself – I am more than likely halfway through living the earthly life that God has blessed me with here. Of course, I very well know that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow, and I could very well die at any moment, a victim of any number of maladies. But when I take into consideration that my natural lifespan (Lord willing) is most likely going to be the mid-80s at maximum, it is indeed a sobering thought.

I spent so many years of my life living in anger and denial, repressing things that had happened to me and not knowing how to process those thoughts, or even understanding that I should begin to process those thoughts. Thoughts of guilt, shame, anger, hurt, bitterness, and betrayal; all these thoughts were packed up in the boxes in my attic, and I was determined to never go up in the attic and bring those boxes down or to let anyone else see the contents of those boxes. Being a part of Samson has forced me to make several trips up into the attic began to take the boxes down and go through the pieces – shattered pieces of my life – and look at them and figure out what the heck to do with them. Since becoming involved in Samson back in 2014, I have been on a journey of self-discovery, examination, acceptance, healing, forgiveness, and just allowing myself to be loved by others. It hasn't been an easy path, and there have been many times where I have slid back. But with the help of others and with God, I've made a lot of progress.

Due to the nature of my dad's job, we were very mobile when growing up. Over the course of my K-12 years, I went to any number of schools within three separate school districts. By the time that I arrived in Petal, Mississippi in the summer of 1993, I was shutting down. I was angry, bitter, incredibly hurt, and unable to express myself to anyone. Growing up in a relatively rural area in the 1990s, there was no one to open up to and even if there had been, I certainly would not have known how to even begin to do so. The older that I grew, the harder that my heart grew. By the time I reached the end of my high school years, I was drifting. To intensify an already rough situation, my family dynamics were extremely strained during my 11th to 12th-grade years. At the beginning of my freshman year in college, my dad's job transferred him to Louisiana, and he, my mom, and my younger brother all moved off and left me to attend college in Mississippi. I was not sure what I wanted to do when I got out of high school, but my parents absolutely put their foot down and insisted that I must go to college. Looking back, I think that it would've been a much wiser decision if I had taken a year off between high school and college to work and to just find myself and to just find my way in life. But I didn't.

It is a long story, but straight out of college I was hired by a national corporation that ran the largest store in Grand Canyon National Park on the south rim. Originally, I was set to begin teaching overseas (my college degree was in English) in the fall, and I simply wanted to go out West for the summer just to get away and to experience life someplace other than Mississippi. Little did I know, but when I arrived at the Grand Canyon National Park store, they would like me so much that they put me to work upstairs in the accounting department on a permanent basis. What was intended to be a summer job turned into a two-year gig which found me living at the National Park on a full-time basis. My time there was bittersweet, and I was haunted for so many years upon my return to Mississippi by the experiences that I had out there and some of the things that I had done.

My beautiful bride and I met when we were in college together. We dated for two years in college, then went our separate ways after we graduated from the University. We decided to stay together long-distance while I was in Arizona, though I will be the first to tell you that it is incredibly hard to maintain any type of relationship over a long distance. After two years in Arizona, I received news of my beloved maternal grandmother's failing health and so I made the decision to leave my job in Arizona time back to my home state of Mississippi to start graduate school for my first Master's degree, get married, and spend time with my grandmother. My wife (then fiancée) moved to Clinton, Mississippi in the fall of 2007. We were married that December in 2007, and only intended to be in Clinton for the duration of the time that I was in graduate school.

I had such grandiose plans for our lives – we were going to go to another state (preferably somewhere with less humidity) and live a beautiful life blissfully happy in a place that was anywhere but in Mississippi as most of my other relatives have done. But something really strange happened along the way. We somehow got stuck in a time warp, and it is now 2021 – nearly 14 years later. And guess what? We are still living in Clinton, Mississippi. Not only are we still living in Clinton Mississippi, but we also have a house, a kid, three dogs, and many, many friends here. I was thinking about that the other day. In a mere few weeks, my son is about to start his second-grade experience in elementary school. Even as recently as a few years ago, my wife and I struggled with trying to figure out what in the heck we wanted to do with our lives. While we both have great jobs here, we have family scattered all over the United States. Aside from my mom and dad, we are basically the only ones still here in Mississippi. Well, that and I also have an eccentric great aunt that means the world to me and that we love dearly. During the time that we have been married, we have buried all four grandparents, a great uncle, another great uncle, and my wife's grandmother. So we really do not have that much family left here in Mississippi.

But you know, it really is a funny thing. You don't have to be related by blood in order to be family with people. My wife and I have a wonderful church family that we love dearly, and I have never had a chance to be a part of the same church for more than 13 years. Prior to moving to Clinton, I had never had the opportunity to live for nearly 14 years in one location. My Samson family is here, my friends are here, my job that I love dearly is here, and my church family is here as well.

People knock on Mississippi all the time and say what a horrible place it is to live. But they just don't know. I have lived out West, and I have also had the pleasure of visiting many other states. While the weather here is warm in Mississippi, the people are even warmer. You just don't find the graciousness, kindness, and generosity in a lot of people in other states as you do in the people of Mississippi.

I am 40 years old, and there are still times when I feel like I am stuck in a rut – I have lived in the same house, been married to the same woman, gone to the same church, had the same dog, and lived in the same town for nearly 14 years now. Part of me thinks that it shows a lack of ambition on my part to not want to advance past the confines of Mississippi and find a better life elsewhere. But then it really hit me all of a sudden last year when I hit 40 years old during Covid – it is an absolute blessing! When my wife and I asked our son the other day if he ever wanted to move, he said no, "I love my church, my friends, and my school!" And then I thought to myself – the grass is not always greener and what a wonderful gift it is that God has given me to be able to provide my son with the stability that I did not have when I was growing up. My wife was born in El Paso Texas, the daughter of a high-ranking military official. Although her parents eventually got divorced, she spent her early childhood being bounced around from city to city and she and her brother both have PTSD as a direct result of this. My wife and I directly attribute our respective childhoods as a contributing factor in our hesitancy to move in our adult years.

My wife and I talked a few weeks ago and we both realized that at some point over the past year, we both individually came to the conclusion that this is home. Perhaps there is more money to be made in other states. Perhaps there are better opportunities in other states. Perhaps we have grown complacent and become stuck in a rut. But you know what? That is okay. God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good. He has given me so many opportunities here in Mississippi to continue to pour into others, as well as let others pour into me. The wounds of my childhood have finally begun to heal. The comfort that I feel living here in my house with my beautiful bride, wonderful son, and three annoying dogs is never something that should be taken for granted. Nor is it something that should be seen as a sign that I am stuck in a rut. I heard God say last year very clearly: live where you have been planted my child and enjoy this gift that I have given you while living the life that I have blessed you with.

My wife and I have always loved to travel. These days, we don't travel nearly as much as we did before the days of having a kid, as we are bound by the constraints of full-time jobs, the kid's schedules, dogs, and a household to manage. But we do travel, it is usually to visit relatives in other states. But you know the funny thing? Whenever I am returning to my home in Clinton and I hit the home stretch of road, a huge smile slowly spreads its way across my face and I think to myself "I am home."

I finally understand that whether it's the life I had imagined, I am living the life that God had planned for me in the place he decided to put me. And there, I have found healing.

Bridges, Part Three – “The Dangerous Bridge” Feat. Lauren Daigle’s “Rescue””

Bridges Part Three - "The Dangerous Bridge" Feat. "Rescue"

Happy Sunday, everyone! Stephen here. It has, quite regretfully, been a minute or so since I have posted anything on this blog. In my last post, I kind of semi-shared the seismic shift that my career has taken over the past few years. Although I remain loyal to and quite rooted in the field of academia, I found myself changing gears and heading towards a career as an academic librarian of some kind. Now, I want to assure you that this was not even a career choice that was ever on my radar; however, it is something that I sort of unassumingly fell into. After about four years, I was told that I would have to go back to school to obtain a second master’s degree to stay at my current job and subsequently become eligible for advancement in my career. So back to school, I went; I started the second master’s program in January of 2019. ­­­­Going back to obtain the MLIS was quite the undertaking; raising a family, being a dad, and working full time is a tall order on its own, never mind adding in the additional stress of attending graduate school for 7 semesters straight in a row (Spring, Summer, Fall in 2019 / 2020, and Spring 2021) without a break. But I pushed myself, finished with my 4.0 intact, and graduated this May 2021. It was definitely a very ambitious undertaking and one that required a lot of faith, time, and money. For privacy reasons, I cannot even get into what we went all went through in my job situation, but 2019 and 20 were very tumultuous times for my work family. At the same time that I was competing in my second graduate school rodeo, I was adapting to and feeling the effects of some seismic changes at work. I did not even know if my efforts would pay off in the form of a promotion within my current workplace. There were no guarantees about anything. There was many a day when I would go home at night after work feeling so frustrated and down and angry at the world. I started to go back into a state of depression, and I began to take out my anger on everyone and everything in my path. I was angry at everyone at work and angry at the world in general. Looking back, I’m ashamed at how bad off I let myself get.

My friend Roddy and I go way back – to our high school days even. In my next blog posting, I will formally introduce him, as well as share some of his story and some of the history and back story of our friendship. Our friendship has taken many twists and turns over the years, and it has also had its fair share of ups and downs. Today, Roddy holds the distinct honor of being one of my oldest friends that I keep in touch with as well as one of my best friends. In this season of life, he and I are sharing a camaraderie born of fatherhood; a sort of camaraderie that can only be discovered by hanging out in the trenches of raising children that are similar in ages. Our friendship has gone through many phases; together, we have experienced the mountaintops and have forded the valleys…we have drifted apart at times and grown closer at other times. Over the past few years, we have made more of an intentional effort to cultivate our friendship, and I love the big lug fiercely with a love that can only be shared by the closest of brothers. Our wives and our children are very close to each other, and we just enjoy each other’s company.

 

During a recent visit with his family to Mississippi, Roddy and I had the opportunity to hang out together for several days. Since I was taking some time off from work, he and I decided that we would have an “adventure day” of sorts. He mentioned that he had visited Natchez one time in his early childhood, but always had the desire to go back. So, I said okay, “Why don’t we plan a day trip to Natchez to eat some catfish and look at the river, but make several interesting stops along the way?” My wife and I visited the “Ruins of Windsor” many years ago during the early years of our marriage, but I have always wanted to return for another visit. I suggested that we first make that stop, and then visit another Mississippi landmark that I had never seen before: “the ghost town of Rodney, Mississippi.” Early that morning, we departed from my home in Clinton and set off down the Natchez Trace where we enjoyed a leisurely drive as we headed towards the ruins. We found the ruins easily enough using the navigation system in Elliott, my trusty sidekick of seven years. We enjoyed great conversation as the country music radio station quietly played on the satellite radio in the background, the music only occasionally interspersed with Elliott’s voice as he expertly guided us to the ruins.

Happy 7th Anniversary "Elliot" - The places we've been!

Happy 7th Anniversary, "Elliot" You didn't look this good after Old Rodney Road got ya...

With ole Roddy, shortly before heading down Old Rodney Road

We didn’t stay at the ruins all that long on that day, but we did enjoy looking around as we took a few pictures. Years ago, when my beloved and I first visited the ruins, there was only a small little chain around the ruins serving as a barricade. Now, in 2021, there is a large chain-link fence that encompasses the entire perimeter of the ruins. I heard that it was installed due to idiots vying for the Darwin Award of the year; apparently these idiots had been caught trying to climb the ruins. Now, I am not the world’s smartest person, but I believe that even the village idiot would recognize that these ruins are not stable. Nonetheless, the ruins are still spectacular even surrounded by the ugly black chain-link fence. As we left the ruins, I plugged in the address for the old town of Rodney, Mississippi into Elliott’s navigation system. With George Strait ruminating in the background and Elliott’s authoritative voice occasionally directing us, we left the ruins and set off down the road towards the desolate destination of Rodney, Mississippi.

I must admit that after seven years of driving around in Elliott, I have discovered that he quite often possesses a penchant for routing me to my destination via the most roundabout route possible. In seven years, he has never failed to get me to my destination but has often taken me along the scenic route. These days, I am more inclined to use the Google maps app on my phone since Elliott’s map is the same one he left the factory within 2014. Being the tightwad that I am, I have never felt the need to spend the $200 + dollars that Hyundai demands in order to update the map on his Sat-Nav system. For the most part, this is not a problem unless you happen to be driving around in an area that has been constructed since 2014. As we all know, the area surrounding Rodney, Mississippi has been around since pre-Civil War days, so I felt that it was sufficiently safe to let Elliott guide to Rodney, Mississippi. I must admit that I had been absently driving, following directions as they were given, but not really paying attention to where I was going. Roddy and I were having a good conversation and listening to some Garth Brooks on the radio when suddenly Alcorn State University appeared before us. In shock, I looked at Roddy and said “Dude, this ain’t no ghost town! This is an HBCU!” I had never visited the campus of Alcorn State University, and though being the academian that I am made me very curious to tour the campus, I was far more interested in arriving at my intended destination of Rodney, Mississippi.

As I pulled up to the guardhouse, a very nice employee came out and peered at us curiously. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said. “We’re trying to find the town of Rodney Mississippi with the old Presbyterian Church and this crazy car has done brought us to your university instead!” “No, honey,” she said, “this car has brought you to the exact place you need to be.” “If you follow the directions, your car is going to take you to the very back of our university where you will find old Rodney Road which starts on the backside of our campus.” “Oh, okay,” I said. “Thank you very much for your help.” “If I was you, I’d be really careful, honey” she said. “I’m not sure that a little old thing like that will make it down old Rodney Road!” she said, giving my car a dubious glance. “Women!” I said, glancing at Roddy. “They sure do have a flair for the dramatic sometimes!” Slowly, we navigated through the lovely campus of Alcorn State University when Elliott suddenly said, “turn right and proceed straight.” Suddenly, I put on the brakes and stared in utter shock.

The relative safety of the blacktop suddenly ended as we left the university behind us. Before us, stretched a one-lane, dirt logging road that looked to have not seen any traffic since the heyday of Rodney in the 1800s. “Oh, hell no, we’re not going down this road in Elliott,” I told Roddy in a horrified voice while patting Elliot’s dashboard reassuringly. We will never make it. In absolute frustration, I turned off Elliot’s Sat-Nav system and got my phone out and pulled up Google maps. After surveying the map, I determined that the only other alternative we had would be to leave the University going back the way we had come and take another roundabout way that would eventually get us to Rodney. Or, I could grit my teeth and say my prayers while driving the 6 miles down old Rodney Road. I look at Roddy, and he said “I think we will be fine, man.” “I’m sorry, buddy!” I mentally whispered to Elliott as we set off down one of the worst roads I have been down in recent years. Now, if I had been in old Henry, my 1988 F150, I would have gone all out pretending that I was Uncle Jesse Duke in the Dukes of Hazard. But as it was, we were stuck in Elliott with his approximately 2 inches of ground clearance going down some of the roughest terrain he has ever been down. Slowly, I moved back and forth all over the road, weaving in a manner that would have made the drunkest of drivers proud. I wish so badly that I had thought to stop and take a picture of that forsaken country, but as it was, my white-knuckled hands were so busy gripping the steering wheel in a death grip that they did not have much time to do anything else such as taking pictures. Suddenly, I came to an abrupt stop; before me lay an obstacle that I simply could not circumnavigate no matter how much I tried.

I don’t know how many of you have ever had the absolute pleasure of navigating old Rodney Road, but if you have by any chance been down that road, you will know that it is barely wide enough for even a small sedan like Elliott. With its steep embankments on either side, there is simply nowhere to turn around and nowhere to go except forward or backward. All I could think about was Lord help us if we meet anyone coming down this forsaken road. One of us would have surely had to drive in reverse all the way back to the place where we had started. We have had an enormous amount of rain this summer. I, for one, have never seen my grass stay such a beautiful shade of emerald green in the midst of July! Normally, my grass is half-dead by this point because I simply do not water it as I should when there is insufficient rain. This year, it is an absolute half an acre of lush emerald carpet that must be cut every week. Apparently, old Rodney Road has seen the same amount of rainfall! Before me was this enormous mud puddle/mudhole that spanned the entire width of the road. No, there was certainly no circumnavigating that one! I looked at my map and determined that we had gone approximately 3 miles at that point; we had approximately three more miles to continue to Rodney. I looked up at Roddy and said “I don’t know about this, man!” He looked back at me and said “What are you going to do? Go backwards all the way to the University? I decided at that point that it would be way too difficult to navigate all the potholes in reverse; certainly, it had been hard enough work navigating them going forward! With no choice, I hit the gas, closed my eyes, and said my prayers.

I had absolutely no idea how deep the mudhole was; indeed, deciding to proceed forward was an act requiring equal parts of blind faith and stupidity. I felt the car dip down and start to slide all over the road. Now, you should know that Elliott came from the factory with low-profile 17 inch, extra wide, high-performance tires. They were never intended to tackle anything like old Rodney Road threw at them. As I continued to press down on the gas pedal, I felt the wheels spinning and the car sliding and I looked at Roddy and said “Oh, snap! I don’t think AAA will ever find us out here, much less be able to tow us back!” About the same time that I said that the tires once again caught traction on the dry land on the other side of the mud hole and off we continued. We made it to Rodney without any further incident, and I lifted a prayer of thanksgiving once we had safely parked and exited Elliott. Our time in Rodney was rather uneventful; we could not actually go up to the old Presbyterian Church to see it as it is currently undergoing renovations and structural repairs. We did get a lot of pictures and never saw another soul from the time that we left the university until we arrived in Natchez except for one old man plowing a field on a tractor right outside of Rodney.

As we prepared to leave Rodney, I once again consulted my Google maps. I noticed that there was a bridge up ahead on Muddy Bayou Road listed on the map as the “Wooden Bridge of Death.” “Roddy!” I exclaimed. “We have to go see this bridge.”

As Roddy scanned the horizon ahead and looked down the ominous dirt road which seemed to disappear in the bushes, he said “Haven’t we tortured your poor car enough for one day?” “Yeah, probably so” I replied. Since it only looked to be a quarter of a mile down the road, we set down the road on foot. Suddenly, we came to the Wooden Bridge of Death which did look kind of spooky as there were no guardrails at all to be seen on either side of the bridge.

Hmm...doesn't look too dangerous....

Scary???? Or not????

We Survived! Didn't die.

The "Wooden Bridge of Death"....say what?????

After taking the obligatory selfie to offer up as proof to our wives that we had indeed survived walking across the Wooden Bridge of Death, we headed back to Elliott where we proceeded to set off in Natchez under the expert direction of his Sat-Nav system.

            The month of May and part of June were spent in an absolute state of fog. For some reason, I started slipping into a sort of state of depression during the time immediately following my graduation in early May. For so long, I had fought, I had pushed, and I had been through so much at work, all while trying to be a husband, a father, a friend, a son, a brother, and a devoted follower of Christ. I am ashamed to say that much of 2019 and part of 2020 were spent living within the angst that comes from telling God “Hey, thanks, but I got this, I can do this by myself.” Feelings of doubt, anger, uncertainty, and sadness plagued my life for the first part of the time that I was in graduate school. In the middle of 2020, after everyone at my university, had returned to work in person, I recall hearing Lauren Daigle sing “Rescue” on the radio. I remember just breaking down and telling God that “I don’t got this after all. I need you, and I need you to guide me and deliver me through this rough season of life.” From that moment on, I felt like God was telling me “I have you, son. I got your back, and I will never leave you. Just wait on me and I will rescue you, and I will show you what the path that I have laid out for you looks like in due time.” From that moment on, I felt like God was just telling me to wait and be patient. In early 2021, I applied for a different job at a much larger university, but nothing ever came of it. My co-workers really did not want me to leave anyway. Again, I heard God clearly say “sit tight, be patient. I got your back.” In April, God made it clear to me that his plan for this season in my life is just to stay and grow where I have been planted. A brand-new professional position was created for and given to me upon my graduation. All the months that I doubted God, questioned him and was very impatient with him turned out to be all for naught. Whether or not we know it, whether or not we understand it, or whether we choose to accept it, his plan for our lives is unfolding in his own time as he intends for it to, and we are simply powerless to stop it. All we can do is sit back and go with the flow and watch all of the puzzle pieces begin to connect as God puts them into place.

            Just as that trip down old Rodney Road proved to be quite the test of faith, the past couple of years of my life have also been a test of faith. I learned something going down old Rodney Road – sometimes when you have a big ole mud hole sort of obstacle in your life, you can’t stop and give up. You can’t blindly back up for 3 miles. No, the only option that you have in life is to simply put the pedal to the floor and proceed full strength ahead with wheels spinning and tires slinging mud! God will rescue you and see you through. Just like I never gave up halfway through graduate school and continued to move ahead, blindly, not knowing where that path was going to lead me, I had no choice but to move forward down old Rodney Road and trust that God was going to pull me through. Either God or a tow truck driver that he would hopefully send from AAA. In life, it is sometimes far more dangerous to quit mid attempt and to try to backpedal. Even though the road ahead seems dangerous (and full of “pseudo” dangerous bridges), we have no choice but to continue forward and trust that God will pull us through and “rescue” us.

            Roddy and I survived both the trip down old Rodney Road and the “Wooden Bridge of Death” that day! God has been gracious to both of us and individually, has brought us through so much in our respective lives. In part four of the “Bridges” series, I will formally introduce Roddy to you and share some of his amazing story as well as give some back story into our deep and storied friendship. Until next time, Godspeed!
 
Stephen